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Cars I’ll Never Buy, Driven By People I’d Never Have Lunch With

Cars I’ll Never Buy, Driven By People I’d Never Have Lunch With

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It’s nothing personal; I just find it hard to eat when someone is talking at me about torque, power-to-weight ratios, and things of that nature. I’m interested in cars, but only in the most cursory sense. I barely passed my license exam, and my driving has been compared to that of a quadriplegic with nothing left to live for. I deal with heavy traffic through heavy sedation, and I’m not allowed to operate a vehicle outside of the contiguous United States. When someone tries to have a sophisticated conversation with me about cars, I curl up in a ball and die a little. Other than that, I’m the perfect person to talk about cars with after I’ve finished my sandwich.

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Fast and Furious and Polish

Fast and Furious and Polish


Three men were all applying to become NYPD detectives. One was Polish, one was Jewish, and one was Italian. Unfortunately, there was only one position available, so the police Chief decided to interview each man himself to see who was the most qualified. Rather than go through three lengthy interviews that would take up his whole day, the Chief decided to ask each applicant just one, unorthodox question and base his decision on their answers.

When the Jewish man arrived for his interview, the Chief asked, “Who killed Jesus Christ?” The Jewish man answered without hesitation, “The Romans killed him.” The Chief thanked him for his time, and the Jewish man left. When the Italian arrived for his interview, the Chief asked the same question. He replied, “Jesus was killed by the Jews.” Again, the chief thanked him for his time and the Italian left. When the Polish man arrived for his interview, he was asked the exact same question, “Who killed Jesus Christ?” The Pole leaned back in his chair and stared off into space for about five minutes before saying, “Could I have some time to think about it?” The Chief said, “Okay, but get back to me first thing tomorrow morning.”

When the Polish man arrived at home, his wife asked “How did the interview go?” He replied, “Great, I got the job, and I’m already investigating a murder!” 

And Now, The Moment You’ve All Been Waiting For…

And Now, The Moment You’ve All Been Waiting For…


Here’s all the nonlethal crashes from a variety of different races at the Nurburgring. Now you don’t need to pretend to like racing to see the crashes. You don’t need to watch a minute of actual racing to get to the juicy bits. All the juicy bits have been arranged here for your viewing pleasure — you’re welcome.

I like the crashes where they’re driving their mother’s hatchback in a straight line, and then somehow manage to spin out. All the ones with real race cars are good too, but there’s a certain charm to watching a Fiat Panda go careening into a wall. To be honest, the smaller the car, the more entertaining I find its demise. Along with that, I love when they’re not going very fast. It takes skill to completely oversteer and spin out when you’re going 10 MPH. Don’t even get me started on the motorcycles. Watching someone take a nasty spill off a slow-moving motorcycle fills me with childish glee

Normally, I’d say that there is something deeply wrong with me, but I know that everyone wants to watch crashes just as much as I do. It’s revenge for every time a car drove by your house at 2 AM, going 120 MPH, and blasting crap music. It’s a great way to let out all your pent up aggression. The same concept works for a lot of different things. After this I’m going to go watch a montage of Gordon Ramsey screaming at amateur chefs because I went to a restaurant once and my steak arrived a bit cold. Justice is served and karmic balance is restored to the universe.

Sometimes, A Man Has Gotta Go Fast

Sometimes, A Man Has Gotta Go Fast


I really don’t know what all the hubbub is about; this is what the average run to the corner store for milk, cigarettes, and porn looks like when I’m driving. I typically crash a lot more than he did, I won’t give them the satisfaction of impressing a mildly pretentious jerk who lives in his Mom’s basement and eats Chef Boyardee ravioli out of a can while sitting semi-nude, basking in the warm glow of his CRT monitor. I think my problem is that I don’t have someone shouting instructions into my ear before every turn. When my Mom comes along she gives me pointers like “Watch out for that tree!” and “Slow down, you psychotic little cretin.”, but I don’t think those are the same as real racing instructions.

To be honest I think we’d both be better off if we didn’t have anyone barking instructions at us to begin with. It’s not like they mean anything, anyways. When you’re going over a hill, sideways at 90 MPH, who has time to figure out what “55 triple left hook; steady straight 300, 22, 88.” means? At that point, I’d be a lot more concerned with avoiding that nasty patch of spectators and trees in front of me than skirting some bushes half a mile up the road.